December Sixteenth, Twenty Fourteen

it was sixteenth of the last month of this year,
the morning happened.
the sun rose and robbed off sleep,
school bells rang and the attendance was ensured
but by the end of the day
they called the events as dark as night skies,
death roll calls were called.
there was no sleep, there was no peace,
the mourning happened.

the neighborhood howls and wails in shock,
the mothers clutch their babies tight
I sit here pondering over the ironed clothes,
the lunchboxes packed with warmth.
I sit here holding back tears in agony,
the woe of bullet scorched young chests.
I sit here and let out a cry in plight.
the disbelief got me goosebumps,
the pain had my body go numb.

on the sixteenth of the last month of this year,
I could barely function all day.
the pen left my grip
thinking of coffin boxes and cries,
screams and blood stained attires.
and I left the dinner table starving,
with only emptiness filling myself up,
and rightly so,
a hundred something families torn,
a hundred something laughs gone,
a hundred something dreams broken,
a hundred something words left unspoken,
a hundred something goodbyes unbid,
a hundred something deaths kissed.

it's twenty first of the same month of this year,
and at times like these,
I am at loss for words all over again.
on days when tucked under the blanket,
slipping into the pit of melancholia,
and trauma making each bone ache,
we shall remember.
and think of every life lost.
we shall accumulate every drop of spilled blood,
and no longer recite every plea said.
we shall grow and avenge.
we shall rise and shine.
and with every revenge, and with every growth,
we shall remember the sixteenth of the last month of this year.